As they listen to the chaplain, a strange feeling starts to build inside them. You can see it in the way they look at each other. The shyness, the sullenness that has defined them lately, is gone. Normally they would laugh at the phrase “dragon slayer,” but now they feel the term fits. In more somber moments, they wouldn’t know what to do with it. Out here, though, it feels right.
“The war out here has spread to Denmark,” says the chaplain. “It’s a fact we have to face. We can travel five thousand kilometers to slay the dragon, but the dragon can also travel five thousand kilometers in the opposite direction. It’s here. And now it’s also back home. Are we suddenly fighting on two battlefields at once? But what, then, is home?”
Lukas Møller pounds his chest; he’s no longer the same. The thought of the danger threatening them ignites him. “Home is here,” he says in his loud preacher voice, as if he’s competing with the roar of an APC’s engine. The tent canvas flutters suddenly. It must be the desert wind, but it seems like a storm created by the chaplain and his words.
“Your home is here,” he repeats, pounding his chest again. “In your hearts. As long as you fight for what is right, you have a home. The dragon has no home. Why do you think the Taliban always uses civilians as human shields? Because the Taliban doesn’t belong here. Because they don’t care whether anyone or anything ever grows here. They don’t care about the crops in the fields, or the children, or the women whom they’d just as soon see removed from the face of the earth. They’ve turned against everything that constitutes a home. They’re like the dragon in its dark cave, surrounded by stone walls. Unlike us, they don’t use fire to warm themselves but only to destroy. Homeless on earth—that’s what they are. When we fight them, we are defending the very principles of life. Now that we know that the weeds have spread to Denmark, the burden feels heavier. Uncertainty grows when we think about our loved ones back home, but it mustn’t be allowed to spread to our hearts. Certainty must reign there. Determination must reign there. A large and decisive battle stands before us.”
He looks around at every single one of them. “You’re needed, Simon. And you’re needed, Andreas. And you’re needed, Henrik. And you’re needed, Mads. And you’re needed, Janus. And you’re needed, Bo. But it’s not me who needs you, not Ove Steffensen, not the army, not the minister of defense, not even Afghanistan. It’s Denmark that’s calling for you. But what, then, is Denmark?”
The chaplain looks right at each and every one of them again. Then he repeats their names. After each name he adds the names of their relatives, sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, lovers. He has listened when they came for tea.
“That’s what Denmark is. Something different for each of us. A woman we’ve chosen as our life partner, a father, a mother, our children, so many names that mean everything to us. It’s all those we love and can’t live without. Your Denmark, my Denmark, we each have our own—and we have it all together. That’s the Denmark we’re willing to die for. And that’s the great privilege of being a soldier. Here in the army, you fight for your loved ones.”
Can I sleep at night now? Mads wants to ask. That’s the real reason he’s here. He wanted the chaplain to say something soothing, which the chaplain hasn’t done. Just the opposite. But Mads doesn’t ask his question.
He doesn’t sleep well that night, either. There’s a fury inside him. Maybe it’s better than the impotence gnawing at him before. Who knows?
More of them show up. Not everyone’s family has suffered a misfortune, but they all fear that one might happen. They compare stories as if they’re compiling a family album showing only broken limbs, bruises, and relatives scared to death or hunched over in silent depression. Blood on a rain-soaked pavement. The blood takes the shape of the Devil’s face. The word “crime” seems too small. “Terrorism” fits better. Terrorism has arrived in Denmark.
That’s what the chaplain has seen.
4
“Dragon slayers.” That’s what the chaplain calls the soldiers.
The words are a comfort, an assurance. If we don’t kill them here, they’ll kill us at home. No one ever says it that directly, but it hides between the lines of every speech every defense minister has ever given. Kill them before they kill us.
They’ve never tried to imagine how it would look if terrorism actually reached Denmark. Roadside bombs on suburban streets? Men in turbans and sandals carrying backpacks filled with explosives at every train station? A map of Denmark riddled with bombed-out craters, like a moonscape.
Maybe not exactly like that . . . but what then?
Now it has happened. They have proof. This is how it looks. Clandestine, insidious, but carried out by whom? Foreigners of typically Middle Eastern appearance? Homegrown Taliban? Gangs of immigrants?
Wherever their speculations lead, the conclusion remains the same. The only rational thing to do is to go down into the Green Zone and fire away. What else could they do? Have tea with the Taliban?
But do they get permission? No. They have to wait. Go on patrol, as they usually do. Mark their presence, but no more. Show that they’re there instead of fighting. Winning Hearts and Minds. Fuck Hearts and Minds!
Things are moving; the chaplain has set them in motion with his speech about their loved ones.
Suddenly they miss everyone back home so damn much. They’ve turned into homebodies from five thousand kilometers away. Will they ever see their families again? It no longer depends on them, their training and shooting skills, the Taliban, or roadside bombs. Now it also depends on someone back home, unknown people with murderous intentions going after the ones they love.
“Shall I teach you the secret to going home alive so you can see your loved ones again?”
The chaplain stands at the altar. On this Sunday, his small tent is full. They had to set up more folding chairs, and many are sitting on the ground or standing up. Although it’s late January and cold, the little tent heats up quickly. They’re wearing shorts and T-shirts, their tattoos half exposed. Some are bald, while others have wild beards; they’ve all become leaner, their faces more angular. They’re harder now. That’s how they want to see themselves. But they have also been seized by a new uncertainty.
Not only does Møller have a congregation that keeps growing; he’s also a different preacher now. No more talking about films or books—he speaks to his new congregation the way he does when he meets with them one-on-one. The church becomes an intimate space where he knows every one of them. He’s had so many conversations with them, and even now, with all of them gathered together, his tone is the same as when they’re sitting alone across from him. They’re united in a newfound sense of community. In his hands they feel like one single being.
“You can kill for love,” says the chaplain. “As a matter of fact, love is the best, most noble motive for killing. I know that murder might look like the opposite of love. But it isn’t. It can just as well be a consequence of love.
“Only with the Lord can you allow yourselves to be sheep,” he says in a voice they’ve never heard before. It’s still warm and comforting, but there’s also something urgent and forceful about it now. He’s building up to something, a place he wants to take them, high up, a mountaintop with a clear view, and they’re starting the journey with him.
“It is written that you should turn the other cheek, but that doesn’t mean that you should turn another’s cheek and just stand there like spectators when someone close to you is attacked. The most beautiful commandment in Christianity says that you must love your neighbor as yourself—but that means that you must also defend your neighbor when someone wants to do them harm. You have to defend the ones you love. Otherwise, what is your love really worth? You have to put your neighbor’s life above your own. That’s what a soldier does when he sacrifices himself—and you are all soldiers. You don’t defend your neighbor simply by taking the bullet meant for them. That’s the sheep’s way of sacrificing. No, you defend your neighbor in battle. You go right u
p to the enemy who fired the bullet and end him.”
The chaplain invites everyone to a meeting in the mess tent. This isn’t some lecture or debate with coffee and pastry. Some sit, others have to stand, and there are many more than those whose family or friends have experienced these so-called attacks.
Schrøder sits with his men. If one thinks about it, he and the chaplain are polar opposites: the minister who speaks for war, and the soldier who speaks for restraint; the minister who calls the enemy dragons, and the soldier who insists that they never forget that the ones they’re shooting at are also people. The chaplain glances at Schrøder off and on, as if he’s waiting for an objection, maybe even a confrontation, a huge debate, two views of life that will collide.
Schrøder stands up. Meanwhile the gathering has grown in size. Officers are in attendance, also, their faces filled with skepticism. Everyone is staring anxiously at Schrøder. What will he say?
“I don’t want to insult anyone by calling this nonsense,” he says, “but that’s exactly what it is.” He looks at Møller. “Forgive me, Chaplain. Let me explain what I mean. We’ve talked about this before in our platoon. Mothers.” His gaze glides across the gathering as if he’s inspecting the people from his own platoon. “It’s your mother you sit with when you write your will before setting out. It’s your mother who cries. It’s your mother who keeps demanding an explanation for why you want to go to war. It’s your mother who drives you crazy with all her annoying questions. And when you’re distracted on patrol, it’s because you’re thinking about your mother.”
They all bow their heads, not knowing if they should laugh or not.
“All this speculating you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in—it will end up being your mother who has power over you. And I don’t think that I, or anyone else, can talk you out of these thoughts. Therefore we need clarification. We need to go to command. They need to launch an investigation.” He looks again at the chaplain. “So I support you, Møller. Not in your suspicions. But something needs to be done. And as for the rest of you mama’s boys”—he shoots them a weary glance—“I can’t control what you’re thinking. But from now on, you should have to pay a fine for calling home to your mommy.”
The sound of scattered applause comes from the officers backing him up.
5
It happens the same way every time. Schrøder states a time when they can meet. An armored vehicle waits in the parking lot. They quickly disrobe. They make love as they did the first time, engulfed in wordless passion, two sinewy bodies wrapped around each other as if they’re trying to swap identities.
Is there something in him she can’t quite reach? His naked torso has no tattoos. As if he doesn’t want to be identified, she thinks, in case they find his dead body. Schrøder, who is about eight years older, has seen more and thought more about things. She clearly sees how his higher military rank incites her love, just like his incessant talking. It doesn’t only prove his superiority; it’s also a side of himself he doesn’t show the others. She feels chosen.
But what does she have to give in return? What she knows about life is shit. Yet his words are like a hand reaching out to her. Something broken inside her will heal. She will grow. Her thoughts circle constantly around him.
After they’ve made love, they rest a moment next to each other. He’s still shaving around his mouth. She wonders if he’s still using duct tape, like that night in Spondon.
“Are you still dreaming?” she asks.
He nods.
“Always the same ones?”
He nods again. “My unconscious is very single-minded.”
He’s not the first lover she’s had with whom she’s not on a first-name basis. Sometimes in her thoughts she says his first name. Rasmus. But it doesn’t work. He’s Schrøder. A world that is about to open for her. They step inside each other, feeling their way with their fingertips. Yet she knows, despite all her circumspection, that she’s his completely if he will have her. She just has to say it out loud.
She searches for the right word to describe what they have together. “Fucking”—it sounds so crude. “Making love.” No, she dare not use that word. She surrenders. That’s better. And it’s a military expression. She capitulates. For better or worse. Except there’s no worse when she merges her body with Schrøder’s. Only better.
She’s never written a diary. She’d like to now, but she feels as if all she has at her disposal are greeting-card rhymes. So she decides against it.
Does he have a girlfriend back home? She has never asked; she wouldn’t dare. It would sound as if she’s making plans or has expectations, and he just seems so self-sufficient. He doesn’t need anyone. The thought reassures her, though it also prompts a new crisis. If he doesn’t need anyone else, why should he need her? He has a second life back home—and probably a third and a fourth. She senses that he can move around freely in many worlds at once, unlike her: only with great difficulty has she liberated herself from one world, and now she’s in a holding pattern in another.
She has started staring at herself in the mirror. She isn’t searching for traces of her father these days, as she confided to Adam. Now, it’s a woman she wants to see. She wants to be a woman for him. She has always disliked her breasts. If she asked them, other women would surely say they’re nice. Yet she’s always felt like they’re in the way, so she’s squeezed them into a sports bra. Breasts weren’t just impractical on rollerblades—they also cramped her style. It’s a boy’s sport and she was just one of the boys. But now she’s a woman who’s with a man in a way she’s never experienced before. Not because she’s started to view herself through Schrøder’s eyes; he’s simply taught her how to see herself.
“I liked what you said yesterday about nonsense.”
Of course he was speaking to everyone in the mess tent. Still, she felt as if he were whispering his messages into her ear. He talked about nonsense, about worried mothers constantly yammering in the phone. And suddenly she realized what a relief it was to have a mother who, in her alcoholic haze, can barely remember she even has a daughter in Afghanistan. No, her mother wasn’t really a burden. Just the opposite—she was liberating.
“A terror network in Denmark? You know why they believe this shit? Because they can’t stand the thought that life is full of accidents. They want to see a pattern where there isn’t any!”
She feels happy when he talks this way, referring to they, them, and the others. She’s not one of them—she’s outside of them, alone with him. He’s a world in and of himself, and he has invited her into that world.
She nods as if she has been thinking the same thing, and maybe she has, but he has the words to express it.
“No one can stand it that their death or survival might be determined by chance. But that’s all life is. When you survive a battle while your buddy next to you gets his face blown off, when you walk away from a wrecked vehicle without a scratch, while others have to be picked up in small pieces off the ground, do you really believe it’s because you’re more talented than they are? Not really. We all know that it’s chance, pure and simple. We were just lucky—and luck is always determined by chance. We talk about the luck of the Danes, as if luck is some god keeping a special eye on Danes. We need to believe that, even if it makes us dumber. People with vision and talent don’t need luck. Only the incompetent do. An idiot once wrote that everyone in the trenches ends up believing in God. So the incompetence of generals is proof of God’s existence? When we can’t count on the generals, then we have to put our faith in the Lord? You can hear how stupid it sounds. No one gets religion in the trenches. They become superstitious, which is something entirely different. They’re kneeling at fortune’s altar, not the Lord’s. We worship luck to hide shame in our own inadequacy. And when the opposite happens, some meaningless misfortune? When your father is run down by a hit-and-run driver, or your mother is attacked in her own kitchen? Oh, then there has to be something behind it, a greater plan, at the very lea
st a conspiracy. Just the thought that it might be terrorism makes even the most minor injury meaningful. How important all the fools in the mess tent felt yesterday, even though their trivial lives are the most meaningless anyone could imagine.”
Hannah feels frightened when he speaks this way. One day she might also become an object of his scorching disdain and be evicted from the charmed circle.
“I don’t like it when you call my friends fools. They’re your friends, too.”
Schrøder looks at her as if he’s been speaking out loud to himself and forgotten she was there. “Sorry,” he says quickly.
She’s not sure he means it.
As they get dressed, he looks away, as if he’s suddenly shy. A sand-colored shemagh, which he wraps over his mouth to protect against the flying dust, lies on the stretcher next to them. Grabbing the scarf, she hides it in her pocket. A talisman. As long as she has the scarf, Schrøder won’t leave her. The cloth is her security deposit.
She smiles as she leaves. She’s as stupid as all the other superstitious fools he derides, yet just the thought of his shemagh in her pocket makes her feel good. She has something that is his.
6
At the joint meeting held every Saturday between management at Camp Price and the local authorities, the new mayor, Ali Shar’s recently appointed successor, sits between the commander of the Afghan forces and the police commissioner. He smiles, nods at those standing around, and gives the talks that are expected of him. His body language is humble, acquiescent. Although he’s tall, he makes himself seem smaller than those gathered around him. When foreigners are visiting, he is instructed to straighten up and carry himself with dignity, his head held high. His duty is to represent progress in Afghanistan; they’ve finally found a mayor who can do his job.
His appointment is temporary—and Steffensen has stayed out of it. Although the appointment is a compromise between local authorities and the Brits, Steffensen is certain that the new mayor is here to stay. Things are running smoothly. The Taliban is still out there, a constant threat, but here they stand together.
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